


The Blind Banker

by Spamateur



Series: Sherlock BBC Reader Insert [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spamateur/pseuds/Spamateur
Summary: Your adventure continues as you solves crime with your old friend John Watson and new associate, Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Series: Sherlock BBC Reader Insert [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653283
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. A Most Murderous Suicide

  
You were talking with your aunt in 221C when you heard it: a rather obnoxious struggle coming from upstairs. Poor Mrs. Hudson was terribly frightened. "Oh! (Y/N), please, can you call the police!?" she yelped. 

Of course, you didn't. 

Instead, you made your way upstairs to find the origin of the ruckus. To no one's surprise, Sherlock Holmes was the source. He was grappling with a man in a turban and traditional battle dress. 

"Think you could help instead of just standing there!?" Sherlock cried out when he saw you. You considered it as the man tackled him and pinned Sherlock down. With a flick of his wrist, he sent out a silver sword toward Holmes's face from his sleeve. 

Now seemed like a good time to interrupt. You flew forward with impeccable speed and grabbed the tip of the sword, while also giving the attacker a push. You pulled the sword away from Sherlock's throat but when the attacker flung out at you, he cut your left hand in the process. Instinctively, you pushed the sword away, 

"Thanks!" Sherlock grunted. He launched the intruder off with a shove and they fell to the ground, punching and kicking each other- the sword out of reach two feet away.

You casually inched around the fighting men and picked up the sword just as Sherlock had him pinned. You purposely struck a mockingly dramatic pose and brought the sword to the attacker's face- right between his eyes- in one fluid motion. The man stopped his fighting, but no words were ever given the opportunity to be passed, because Sherlock punched him in the face right there and then. 

It took a while for the two of you to stuff the unconscious body in Sherlock's closet, but you got the job done. "Care to tell me what that was about?" you asked once the closet door was closed.

"Nope."

"Right then." You plopped down on the couch in front of the door and started to inspect the cut you'd gotten from the sword. It stung.

You decided to distract your mind from the pain. "Er, Sherlock, next time you decide to have a row with some stranger, try to keep it down, will you? Aunt Hudson was terrified."

"Apologies," Sherlock said shortly. He was sitting at his chair, a book in his face. But he looked up to see the cut on your hand and frowned. Sherlock set down the black book and stood up. "Do you need... help with that?" he asked awkwardly.

You covered the cut with your other hand. "Nope. It's fine." 

But Sherlock pressed on. He said, "You should wrap it up. I have some medical bandages here-" 

"Yeah, I'll can just go downstairs and use my aunt's first aid kit; it's fine." 

But Sherlock stopped you by placing his hand on your right arm which reached for the door handle. You felt a shiver race up your arm on the contact. "No, I've got some here," he insisted. 

Your expression hardened and you pulled your arm from his grasp. "Sherlock. I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

He froze, eyes meeting yours. Bluish gray this time, you noted. His confused gaze was searching your face. Sherlock didn't understand why you were being so touchy. And it didn't help that his ability to interpret human emotions was less than ideal.

That was sort of your problem, too. Your inability to interpret emotions, yes. Most importantly, your own. The way your chest skipped a beat when when Sherlock took your arm... it frustrated you to no end that your body betrayed your mindset.

Finally, you slowly drew your arm back into his grasp, looking away grumpily. He took that as permission and slowly, with delicate hands, wrapped up your injury. He did it with such caution, keeping his eyes on his task, and you were so focused on that fact that when Doctor John Hamish Watson, one of your best friends, entered the flat. Well, _friend_ is an interesting word. He was certainly the closest thing you had to one out of your few close acquaintances, which included Mycroft- Sherlock's much more mature brother- and Molly Hooper.

He entered the room looking hassled. "I just had a row in the shop!" he announced, completely ignoring the tense atmosphere in the room. "With the chip and pin machine!"

You sighed, looking back down at where Sherlock's hands still held your injured one. The gauze was finished, but he hadn't moved away. Once he noticed you looking, however, he sat back.  
"You had a row... with the pin machine?" you echoed.

John plopped down on his chair. "Well, sort of. I stood there and shouted abuse at it. Has anyone got cash?"

Sherlock nodded toward his wallet on the kitchen table. "Take my card."

You watched as John gratefully took the wallet. "So," he said, "Has anyone else been doing anything productive- anything at all? Or have you two been gossiping all morning?"

That really ruffled your trench coat. You made a sour face at John. "Actually, Sherlock and I just-"

"JUST gossiped, exactly as you said!" Sherlock interrupted, standing up in a rush and looking at you meaningfully. You got the message. Not a word.

John gave Sherlock a weird look, but didn't ask further questions about that. He did, however, notice you covering your hand. Watson frowned. "Did you get hurt, (Y/N)?" he asked. 

"No. Well, yes, but no. It's fine."

"Show me," he ordered, taking on a soldiery tone.   
Reluctantly, you revealed your bandaged hand. Under the fabric, the gash in your palm had begun to sting even worse, and the guaze was already smeared red with blood.  
"Oh, for- How'd you get that?" John asked, shaking his head.

"Aunt Hudson dropped a glass and I cut myself cleaning it up," you easily lied. 

"A bit of glass did that?" He asked in disbelief. You nodded, and though John didn't seem satisfied, he left it alone. 

Sherlock stood up suddenly from where he had just sat in front of his laptop. "I need to go to the bank!" Sherlock announced.

Sherlock wasn't one to go somewhere with the intent to actually use what it was designed for. It sounded like a strange and specific trait to assign to Holmes, but it was true. And you knew that he was definitely not the type to actually go to the bank to make a deposit or something. What do people do at the bank anyway? Didn't matter.

So naturally, you followed Sherlock, although the movement sent uncomfortable throbs of pain through your hand. And of course John was close behind when he saw that you too were leaving.

Your attention was drawn everywhere, to all sorts of random places at once- the beeping as a woman swiped her card a few feet away, the glowing number forty-two above an elevator as it dinged open, the swinging of a revolving door. And soon enough, the three of you were standing on the second floor of a very classy building in front of a counter that housed behind it a row of secretaries.

You stood dumbly staring at the nearest secretary, deducing everything about her just to entertain yourself. Sherlock stated his name in a friendly voice and she let him pass with you and John.

You were now in an office. How did you get here? Must have walked. Your mind was all over the place. Truth was, you were thinking about Sherlock. Why was he always on your mind? You couldn't figure him out. You found him aggravating and childish and for some reason, adorable and attractive. But mostly childish. 

Reluctantly, you cast those thoughts from your mind to focus, more or less, on the task at hand.

There was a man with brown hair talking with Sherlock. Something was tense about it. You sensed that the relationship between Holmes and this guy wasn't the strongest. A snippet of their conversation breached your mind: Sebastian something or other. That must have been his name. You weren't really paying attention to what they were saying. 

"These are my friends," Sherlock was telling Sebastian, almost in a bragging manner. "John Watson and (Y/N) (L/N)."

Friends? That was probably a compliment, coming from Sherlock.

John shook Sebastian's hand, and you were going to, but saw a glimpse of Sebastian's watch and stared, letting his outstretched hand to you fall to his side. "Friend?" Sebastian asked, just as you had questioned yourself.

"Colleague," you clarified reflexively. You received an almost disappointed- maybe even hurt- look from Sherlock. You tried not to feel guilty. 

"Right," muttered Sebastian, scratching the back of his neck. Awkward. He sighed and gestured for everyone to sit. There were three back chairs sitting on one side of a blue glass table. On the other side was one black wheely chair that Sebastian took a seat in.

He looked as if he was about to say something, but you said instead, "So, you've been doing well. Been abroad a lot." You leaned forward. "Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" 

Sebastian scoffed, though a bit unnerved. "Did Sherlock tell you that?"

"No," said Sherlock, "I didn't say anything." 

"Right!" Sebastian laughed painfully. "She's doing that thing, that same thing you did. We were at uni together," he said to John, "and this guy had a thing where he'd just look at you and he could tell you your whole life story. Quite a trick." 

Sherlock looked down. He muttered quietly, "It... wasn't a trick."

Sebastian ignored him and continued: "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him!" He laughed angrily, staring accusingly at Sherlock, who avoided his gaze. "We'd come down to formal and this guy'd know you'd been shagging the other night." 

"Our type simply observes," you told him in self-defense. He raised his brows. 

"Right, well, enlighten me, then- How'd you do it? A stain from a type of ketchup you can only find in France or something? Was it the mud on my shoes?"

"Actually," you said rather snidely, "I was chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

That was a lie. In truth, when you saw Sebastian's watch, you noticed that the times were wrong No, not that. The dates. Time was right, date was wrong. It was set for two days ago, which meant that Sebastian had crossed the date line twice. Hadn't bothered to fix it. And his watch? Came out only a month ago.

Sebastian forced a laugh. "Oh, glad you could make it, Sherlock! Never expected to meet someone just as annoying as you. Joking." He changed the subject. "We've had a break-in. Sir William's office, bank's former chairman- been left here like some sort of memorial." He stood up and led the three of you outside into the office. "Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" Sherlock asked as Sebastian took a sharp turn. You failed to turn with them, probably distracted because you'd pulled out your phone and were looking up Sir William's name.

"Nothing," Sebastian answered. "Just left a little message." 

You quickened your pace to catch up with Sebastian, Sherlock and John, who were now entering another room. At the end of the room was a picture of a heavy man whose eyes were slashed out with yellow paint. Next to the painting was some sort of sign, painted in the same yellow tone. Definitely with a spray-can.

  
"The security camera takes pictures every sixty seconds," Sebastian said. "The night of the break-in, the... the graffiti appeared within sixty seconds of the last shot. Whoever came arrived in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."

"Exits?" Sherlock asked. You were only vaguely aware of his voice; you were staring at the picture as if deducing something. In reality, your mind was on the subject of straws. Oldest straw ever- embedded with gorgeous lapis lazuli- was from 3,000 BCE. Wait, no. Not oldest straw ever. Oldest straw ever found. There were older straws. Speaking of straw, bad for horses in excess. Gives them colic.

"That's where it gets really interesting," Sebastian muttered. "We keep track of every door opened with sensors, but nothing was set off that night. No doors were opened."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in deep concentration. John was by your side now, peering at the picture over your shoulder to see what you could possibly be in such a heavy trance over, but he was clueless.

"There's a hole in our security system," Sebastian went on. "Find it, and we'll pay you. Five figures."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," he spat. Without another word, he strut away with his chin high, leaving you and John staring at each other in annoyance towards your tall, prideful companion. With a sigh, you took off after Holmes, but noticed that John stayed behind with an uncertain look. 

Even though you wanted to stay with your friend, you didn't wait for Watson to follow. You had an itching feeling that something was happening. What was it Sherlock liked to say?

The game was on.

You and Sherlock returned to Sir William's office. While Sherlock snapped pictures of the vandalized wall and picture, you were moving through the room in an almost dancing motion, squinting at the graffiti as you stood on your tippy toes or sometimes ducked to see past cubicle walls. The traders around the room were slowly noticing you and staring in bemusement, but you didn't mind.

You just darted around messily, popping your head up to see the picture occasionally like some sort of confused pigeon. You twirled and twisted and scampered and scurried, your end plan unidentifiable to any observer. You caused a table to wobble here and there, even knocked down a few objects that you didn't bother to look at or try to fix in your concentration. 

You backed up, now on the far side of the room- Sherlock was out of sight- and ended up in a separate office almost fully encased in glass. You did another sort of dance, staring intensely at Sir William's portrait across the floor. It was partially concealed by cubicle half-walls, but it couldn't- wait. You turned on your heels and jumped over the glass table in the middle of this office, kicking the black chair down as you landed on the other side. You whipped around, and- bam! There's the prize! This was the only place on the trading floor from which the picture- AND the graffiti - could be seen.

The game was on, and if the game was chess, you'd just gotten one step closer to checkmate. 

You met up with Sherlock and John at the top of the stairs and briskly made your way down the escalator. "(Y/N)," Sherlock said carefully behind you, "are you okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were acting weird."

You made it to the bottom of the escalator and turned around to look at him. _Yeah, it's because you've been on my mind._ "I'm fine. It's nothing." 

[//=\\\\]

You were striding down the street, Sherlock following close behind and John scuttling after. 

"So, what exactly are we going to do now?" John asked. 

"The graffiti was a message, John!" you called back, as if it should be obvious.

"Well then who is it for?"

"Obvious."

"It-it's not- well, how do you know?" The voice was Sherlock's now. He was clearly embarrassed to be in the dark for once. 

"While you were... doing whatever it was you were doing, Sherlock, I was going through the pillars and screens of the office, and there were very few places where you could see the graffiti. Narrows the field considerably."

"Right."

"And of course, the time. Message was left at 11:34 pm, and traders come to work at all hours of the night- particularly Hong Kong! You see? What I was investigating tells us quite a lot. What were you doing, Sherlock?" You voice took on a taunting edge, and Sherlock didn't reply. You'd efficiently embarrassed him, and his expression was what made it worth it.

"Not many Van Coons in the phone book," Sherlock said, instead of answering. 

You nodded in agreement and hailed a cab.

  
[//=\\\\]

  
Next, the three of you arrived at what you took to be Van Coon's apartment block. There was a column of buzzers by the door- Van Coon was on the sixth floor. You rang, but there was no answer.

Sherlock squinted at one of the buzzers, one brand new and labelled "Wintle."

"Just moved in," Sherlock muttered. 

"Could have just replaced it," you argued.

"No one ever does that," John scorned. You had to admit he was right. 

Sherlock pushed the button by the new label and it buzzed. A woman picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi!" Sherlock greeted, taking on a fake friendly voice. "Um, I live in the flat just below you- don't think we've met?"

"Yeah, well I've just moved in," the lady's voice said. Sherlock gave you a smug look and said, to the speaker, "I've just locked my keys in my flat, actually."

"Want me to buzz you in?"

"Yeah, thanks. And can I use your balcony?"

"What?"

  
[//=\\\\]

You and John stood outside Van Coon's room. Sherlock had insisted on entering through the balcony of the upstairs room- alone. You would have argued, but just at that moment, Mycroft called. You picked up and in a genuinely friendly voice chirped "Hello!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust and left without a word, and now, here you were right outside the door. He didn't at any point choose to come let you or John in, so you stayed on the phone with Mycroft, who was currently lecturing you about the Korean elections. To your own surprise, you were actually paying attention.

John wasn't so keen on waiting for Sherlock, however. He kept banging on the door and calling for Sherlock. "Any time you feel like letting me in!" he called angrily at one point while your conversation with the older Holmes brother had moved on you to telling Mycroft what Sherlock'd been up to- speaking of that situation Mycroft had set up with you regarding Sherlock, you'd now decided to do it for free. Sherlock got on your nerves a lot. Mycroft was simply so much more mature and easier to talk with.

John was ever impatient. "Sherlock? You-" The door opened suddenly. 

There was Sherlock, looking altogether let down. "Van Coon's been shot. He's dead."  
  
Sure enough, Eddie Van Coon lay on the bed with a hole in his head and a gun in his hand. 

It took a hot second for the police to get there after John called. They searched through the evidence and watching them felt like watching rats try to do multiplication. Painfully slow and you just wanted to do it for them, but you knew they wouldn't understand.

"Why can't he have just killed himself?" John asked Sherlock, who insisted that it was murder. Obviously, you agreed with Holmes on this one. It was clear to you, but John couldn't see that. "It's not very rare among city types like him."

"It's not suicide," Sherlock replied shortly. John didn't take that for an answer. "Oh, come on," he said. "His door was locked on the inside, I mean, you had to climb from the balcony..." You observed Van Coon's suitcase. There was a depression in the midst of the tightly tacked clothes that suggested there was something else packed in there, but gone now. 

"Something was here..." you murmured. 

John shifted on his feet behind you. "Yeah, thanks, I'll take your word for it."

You raised one eyebrow. "Problem?" you asked with a smirk. 

His face went pale. "I-I'm just not desperate to go rummaging 'round in some bloke's dirty underwear." 

Sherlock walked up to the foot of the bed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Those symbols of the graffiti- it was some sort of..."

"Code?" finished John. 

Sherlock nodded. "But the question is... why? If you wanted to send a message, why not email?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," suggested your dear Watson. 

"Good. You follow." 

"No."

Sherlock sighed. "What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" His tone held a sort of mocking edge as if he were explaining something simple to a three year old. Close enough to the real thing. John frowned- he didn't get it yet.

"He was being threatened," you stated simply. 

Sherlock gave a small nod. "Precisely."

You leaned over Van Coon's dead body and slowly pried open his mouth. "Sherlock, look." He did, and reached into Van Coon's mouth to pull out a black origami flower. 

Just then, a rather young light brown-haired man walked in as Sherlock was bagging up the flower. 

"Ah, Sergeant," you said, standing up and offering a handshake. "We haven't met. I'm (Y/N) (L/N)."

But he didn't shake it. "Yeah, I know who you are, and your boyfriend-" he pointed to Sherlock- "who I'd prefer didn't tamper with my evidence." 

You lowered your hand and gave him a stroppy look. Sherlock stood up straight beside the body and you knew he was rather annoyed with this newcomer, but nevertheless he handed the evidence bag with the paper flower to him. "I phoned Lestrade; is he on his way?" 

"He's busy," replied the man sourly. "I'm in charge. And it's not Seargeant, (L/N). It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Dimmock gave the three of you one last withering look and walked out of the room, pointedly leaving the door behind him to show that he expected the trio to follow. Which you did, of course. 

Now in the living room, Dimmock handed the bag to a forensics officer. "Clearly a suicide," he said, to the officer just as much to you, Sherlock and John. 

John nodded. "Does seem like the only explanation of all the facts," he said, carefully, but giving you and Sherlock a meaningful glance out of the corner of his eyes.

"Wrong," you argued. "It's only one possible explanation of some of the facts." You turned to Dimmock. "You've got one solution you like, and are willing to disregard other facts that don't comply because of it."

"Like?"

"The victim's wound is on the right side of his head. "

Dimmock narrowed his eyes. "So?"

"So, Van Coon is left-handed." 

Beside you, Sherlock made a finger gun with his left gun and mimed shooting himself on the right side of his head. "Requires a bit of contortion," he pointed out. 

"We don't know that he was left-handed."

"You don't," Sherlock corrected. "Which doesn't surprise me, but you only need to take a look around the flat."

You pointed to the small table beside the couch. "Coffee table on left-hand side, coffee mug handle facing the left. Power sockets- habitually uses the ones on the left. Pen and paper on left side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and wrote down messages with his left. Shall I go on?"

"I think you've covered it, (Y/N)," said John. 

"No, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list." You now gestured toward the kitchen. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade, because he used it with his left. "

"It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself on the right side of the head," Sherlock summarized. "Conclusion: someone broke in and murdered him. Only explanation... of all the facts."

"B-but the gun," stammered Dimmock. "Why-"

"He was waiting for the killer!" you interrupted. "He'd been threatened."

"Today at the bank," said John. "Sort of a warning..." 

"He fired a shot when the attacker came in," you said. 

"And the bullet?" Dimmock questioned. 

"Went through the open window." 

"Oh come on!" The DI scoffed. "What are the chances of that?"

"Wait until you see the ballistics report. I guarantee that the bullet in his head was not fired from Van Coon's gun." You walked toward the exit as if that statement was the closure to the conversation, knowing full well that Dimmock wasn't done. You opened the door. 

"But if the door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock asked helplessly as John and Sherlock filed out of the room.

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions." Your voice was condescending. "Lestrade has mine and Sherlock's numbers if you need to call. Later!" You snapped the door shut dramatically.

Out in the hall, John shook his head at you with a smirk. "Drama queen."

You smiled back. Maybe you were, but that was the fun of it all, wasn't it?


	2. BREAKING NEWS: A Show About Crime Talks About Crime

Half an hour later, you, Sherlock and John walked into a dark restaurant. Seated in one corner with some coworkers was Sebastian Wilkes. 

"..he's left trying to cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian was laughing, not having noticed the trio's presence yet. You'd only just walked up anyway.

"The graffiti was a threat!" Sherlock told him, evidently seeing no point bothering with manners or greetings. "That's what it meant."

"I'm... kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" He smiled but was not amused in any way.

"I don't think this can wait," you murmured quietly. "I'm sorry Sebastian, but one of your traders- someone who worked in your office- was killed."

Sebastian's fake smile faltered. "Killed?"

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," sneered Sherlock. "Still want to make an appointment? Would nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

[\\\=//]

Minutes later, Sebastian and the group were relocated outside of the restaurant in the alley beside it. Sebastian was nervously fiddling with his shirt collar. "Harrow, Oxford," he muttered. "He worked in China for a bit, so..."

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finished. Sebastian nodded.

"Lost five million in one morning. Made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Eddie?" You asked.

"Th-that was his first name."

Ohhhhh. Awkward silence stretched on for a minute. "But who'd want to kill him?" John asked, breaking the quiet. 

"We all make enemies," Sebastian reasoned.

"We don't all end up with bullets in our heads," Sherlock retorted. Suddenly Wilkes's phone dinged; a text alert noise. "Scuse me," he said, taking out his phone and reading the message.

The sight seemed to remind Sherlock of you and the other Holmes brother. "Do you actually like Mycroft?" he whispered harshly out of bewilderment, causing Watson to smirk. 

You didn't have to answer, fortunately, because at that moment Sebastian said- his eyes on his phone- "It's my Chairman. The police have got on to him. They're telling him it's suicide."

"The police have it wrong," you stated. "It was murder."

"I'm afraid they don't see it that way," Sebastian muttered. 

Sherlock, sternly- "Seb."

"...and neither does my boss." Sebastian met Sherlock's eye and stared coldly. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked." And with that, he flounced away. 

Well.

John blinked. "And I thought all bankers were supposed to be heartless bastards."

-

John was out on some sort of interview, Sherlock was up in his flat doing who knows what, and you? You were downstairs helping your Aunt Hudson with her advanced-level Sudoku. It was insanely boring, especially since you knew how to solve it but your aunt insisted that you take her through the process. You wanted to escape, to actually _do_ something- perhaps work on the case.

You stayed out of love for your aunt.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson picked up on your endless boredom. "You could take a break and go bring Sherlock his tea, if you'd like," she said with a hint of sympathy in her voice. You stood up, thankful for something to do. "It's sitting on the counter. I only made it just before you came in."

So now here you were, at the top of the stairs, finally doing something, even if it wasn't too eventful a task. Before you stepped into Sherlock's flat, you took on a bored and annoyed face. Opened the door. "Hey, Sherlock," you said in a dull tone. "Aunt Martha told me to bring you some tea, so here you go."

He was sitting sideways on his chair, staring in the mirror at some photograph's he'd attached there: pictures of the graffiti. Didn't turn to look at you, but spoke, "I said, 'could you pass me a pen?'."

You set down the plate with the tea. "When?"

"About an hour ago."

You sighed, annoyed, but picked up a pen and tossed it to him. Sherlock caught it without looking. "You know, you are so full of-"

"Language," he abruptly warned- not in a snappy way, but an amused one. He chuckled. "Here, look." He jerked his head in the direction of his laptop on the table beside him, and of course you walked over to see. On the laptop was an article about another murder.

"An intruder who can walk through walls..." you muttered.

"Happened again last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon. "

You looked up to meet Sherlock's starry blue gaze. "He's killed another one."

[//=\\\\]

Inspector Dimmock was sitting at his desk, arms folded and a stubborn expression on his face. You stared at him. No words were exchanged. Just staring. Intense, nerve-racking staring. A show of dominance, of authority. A challenge to see who would break first. Staring forever and ever and ever... Not. one. blink. 

You could go all day.

"Alright," he gave up, "What is it?"

You fished out your phone- the smartphone that Mycroft had given you- and basically shoved it in Dimmock's face. "Brian Lukis," you recited, "was a freelance journalist who was murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside." Dimmock stared at the phone screen uncertainly. You set it down in front of him and said, "You have to admit, it's similar." Dimmock only scowled.

"Inspector," you said with a heavy sigh, "Do you honestly think that Van Coon was just another city suicide?" 

Eddie was practically squirming in his seat. You rolled your eyes. "You _have_ seen the ballistics reports, I assume?" He nodded reluctantly in response. "And the shot that killed him? Was it fired from his own gun?"

Dimmock didn't meet your eyes as he admitted painfully, "No." 

"No. So, this investigation might go a little quicker if you were to _take my word as gospel._ "

Dimmock slowly met your eyes and stared silently. You snatched up your phone, leaned in, and muttered in a quiet but intense voice, "I just handed you a murder inquiry. And now, _you're_ going to give _me_ five minutes in his flat." 

Moments later, you were walking out of the building with a smug little grin. John and Sherlock were leaning against the wall by the entrance, probably talking about something 

You smirked. "Told you I could handle it. We've got half an hour to investigate."

[\\\=//]

You lifted the police tape blocking the messy book-strewn stairs to the room where Lukis's murder took place, letting John duck under but letting the tape fall when Sherlock stepped up. A look of surprise registered on his face, only to be masked by annoyance. But when you winked at him, his frown flipped into a grin. He deserved that; he knew he did.

Dimmock came as well-- he'd _insisted_. He was still recovering from his wounded pride, as those who stood against intelligent people often tended to. 

The dark blue room was a bit of a mess, but compared to Sherlock's flat, though, it was pristine.

Sherlock peered through a window, one hand holding back its curtains. He smiled. "Four floors up- that's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut, and they think they're impregnable."

"I don't understand," said Dimmock. 

"Yes, but when do you ever?" 

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb," you stated matter-of-factly. You went out to the landing on one side of the room and looked up. A fogged up skylight was there, barely propped up. You looked around to find something to act as a stepping stool- conveniently enough, there was a literal stepping stool among the scattered books on the stairs. 

You positioned it under the skylight and hopped up, pushing the plastic up and peering out. "The victims don't reckon for a second that there's another way in," you muttered. 

John laughed. "He climbed along the walls and hopped in through the skylight? Like Spiderman?"

"He also scaled six floors of a Dockland apartment building and came in through the balcony to kill Van Coon," Sherlock added. 

A sort of grin of disbelief drew across Dimmock's face. "Hold on, now!" he protested. 

" _Detective Inspector_ ," Sherlock growled, "Do you really want to make such an utterly pathetic mistake on this case at the cost of Scotland Yard's still yet dwindling shred of decency, or are you going to start to trust the only people who seem to _know_ anything around here?"

"It's how he got into the bank, too," you added. "Ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Your eyes fell to the books on the stairway. "We need to find what connects Van Coon and Lukis."

Sherlock, following your gaze jumped down a few stairs and picked up one particular red book and flipping it open. He only had to see the inside for a fraction of a second, apparently, because just as quickly as he had opened it, he slammed it shut. "John, (Y/N)," he called, "Let's go!" 

"But- wait, Sherlock!" John shouted as Sherlock started to head out. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock paused. He turned around with the slightest hint of a smile. "Well," he said. "We've got a murder to solve, haven't we?"

You would never admit it, but the sound of Sherlock saying _We_ and his brilliant, dazzling smile made your heart skip a beat.

But why?

You didn't even like him. He was childish. Foolish. Annoying.

Not, by _any_ means, a gorgeous genius detective like you. Absolutely not. Nope. Never. Ever. 

A taxi drive and few minutes searching the signs above the aisles of books was all it took for you and the boys to find the section the book Sherlock had picked up was from. The date stamped on the book was the same as the day Lukis had died, and although it wasn't much to go off on, it was enough to draw the group to where they were now. 

The three of you quickly went to work checking the books, pulling some off the shelves and then sticking them right back in their places. Anyone who'd come to the library with the actual intent of reading would have had no clue what you guys were doing. 

John pulled one book out and gasped. "(Y/N)!" You went over to see what he had found. Painted against the metal behind the books was a streak of yellow paint.

Your eyes widened and you started pulling out more books beside it. It was the same symbol from the bank! "Sherlock," you called, "You better come see this."

[\\\=//]

Back at the flat now, the three of you were looking at the mirror above 221B's fireplace. New pictures of the scene at the library were now hanging next to snaps of the other graffiti. 

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon, Van Coon panics and runs back to his apartment, locks himself in," Sherlock muttered. 

"Hours later, Van Coon dies," John added.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library," you spoke. "Writes the cipher on the shelf, where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home..."

"And late that night, he dies too," John finished. "Why... did they die?" 

"Only the cipher can tell us."

[==\\\/\//==]

Almost an hour later, you and the boys were making your way across Trafalgar Square. The mist from the marble fountain in the middle created a pleasing effect that reminded you of going to the beach, the cool, tiny water droplets from the waves suspended in the air.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock was explaining. "From the million-pound security system at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment." 

John shot Sherlock an annoyed look as he walked. "Yes, okay, but?"

" _But,_ " you said, "it's all computer generated. Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods." The group made its way up the stairs of the National Gallery. "This is different, though. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it." 

"Okay, so.... where are we headed?" John asked, looking at you. You shrugged in response. "Sherlock?"

"I need to ask some advice," Sherlock responded.

I need to- I need to _what?_ You didn't even try to hide your laugh. Sherlock Holmes, asking for someone else's help! "What? Say that again?"

"You heard me perfectly clear; I'm not saying it again," said Sherlock, annoyed. 

John smiled. "You need... advice?"

"Yes. On painting. I need to talk with an expert."

"Well, hold on," you said. "Why didn't you ask me anything? I've studied arts. Never know when it could come in handy."

Sherlock shrugged. "I doubted you'd know anything of graffiti types. Hardly seems your style, does it?"

You tsked. "Okay, true, but you didn't know that I don't know that. You just didn't want to have to ask me for help, didn't you?"

Sherlock gave you a dark look as you and John started laughing. 

He led you and your friend to the back of the gallery. A young man in a hoodie was busily spray-painting a door.

"Part of a new exhibition," he said as the three of you walked up. 

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered with a roll of his eyes.

The artist took a step back and admired his illegal work. "I call it.... _Urban Bloodlust Frenzy._ " He chuckled.

"Catchy!" John commented sarcastically.

He went back to spraying on his artpiece. "Got two minutes before a community support officer comes running round that corner." He looked round to Holmes. "Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock took out his phone and held it up in from of the young man. It was a picture of the graffiti at the library. In one fluid motion, the offender threw the can of paint in his hand to you and snatched the phone out of Sherlock's hand, inspecting it. The can landed in your still-bandaged hand, sending a dull ache through your palm. You half-mindedly tossed it to John. "Know the author, Raz?" Sherlock asked.

The young man- whose name must've been Raz- shook his head. "Recognize the paint, though. Looks like Michigan. Hardcore propellant... I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols?" you asked, eager to move this along. Less than two minutes? Had to hurry this up. "Do you recognize them?" 

Raz squinted at the phone. "Not even sure it's a proper language..." he muttered.

"Two men have been murdered. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them," you told him impatiently. "Are you going to help us or not?"

"Well, it's not much to go on, is it?" Raz asked, still looking at the screen. When you didn't say anything, he looked up carefully, only to find your hard stare. "I-I'll ask around," he stammered, blinking several times. 

"Somebody must know something about it," John reasoned. Then you heard running footsteps.

"Oi!" Someone shouted. It was a couple of community support officers, racing toward the group. With a yelp, Raz dropped the can he still had and took off, you right by his side. 

"C'ya, city suckers!" Raz whooped excitedly as he ran. "It's a poLITICAL STATEMENT!"


	3. Case Coerces

It was five pm when the door to the flat slammed. John must have been home, and he was either in a bit of a rush or a bad mood, judging by the force with which he closed the door.

Sighing, you looked toward the door. You were sitting in the bathroom floor with your two phones in front of you, one showing the Van Coon case and the other the Lukis case. 

You threw on your trenchcoat. You planned to go upstairs and see if John was okay. But as soon as you exited your room, the iphone started to ring. You brought it to your ear with your freshly re-wrapped hand. "Mycroft?"

"(Y/N)! Listen, I've decided to make you aware of the surveillance systems that have been installed in your room."

You pushed open the door to the living room and said into the phone, "For goodness' sake, Mycroft, did you install cameras in my room or something? Microphones? How'd you know?"

"Er- well, yes. It was before I knew I could trust you, really, I mean-"

"You know what, never mind. I'm going to call you later. But we're going to talk about this, Mycroft!" You hung up with a huff.

Sherlock and John were in what seemed like a tense argument. They'd frozen and looked over at you as soon as you came in. Now Sherlock was looking rather annoyed at _you._ "Did Mycroft's true petulant form finally get to you?"

You made a face. "He's still my _friend_ , Sherlock, and also still much less childish than _you._ " You looked at John. "You look a bit ruffled up. Been a while. Where you been?"

"I was _busy,_ (Y/N), getting in trouble with Scotland Yard because the rest of you just left me there! Now, they're giving me an ASBO!" John scowled.

"Well," you said, "why didn't you run, then? Seems pretty stupid to just stay there with a can of graffiti in your hand next to a piece of artwork illegally sprayed on the side of a public building."

"That's what _I_ said!" Sherlock grinned. John glowered at him and his smile fell. "But, er, never mind that. John, I need you to go down to the police station and ask about the journalist." John opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Sherlock didn't give him the chance. "(Y/N), with me."

"But what if I'm busy? Maybe there's something else I'd rather be doing."

Sherlock looked at you doubtfully. "Is.. there?"

"Errr.... No."

So you went with Sherlock to the bank.

You and Sherlock were chatting with Van Coon's personal secretary Amanda, who still had all her stuff in Eddie's office despite his death.

"Flew back from Dalian on Friday," she was saying. "Looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print us a copy?" You requested politely. She nodded. 

"What about the day he died?" Sherlock asked. "Can you tell us where she was?"

The secretary glanced at the screen and then back to Sherlock apologetically. "Sorry. Bit of a gap. But I have all his receipts." 

Moments later, you and Sherlock stood over a fan of receipts on the table.

"What kind of boss was he, Amanda? _Appreciative_?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Uh, no," she replied shyly, brushing a loose strand of blond hair that had fallen from her hair bun out of her face. "Appreciative is not exactly the word I'd use. Only things he appreciated were big price tags."

"Like that hand cream," you chimed in. "Bought that for you, didn't he?"

The secretary fiddles with a pin in her hair nervously but didn't respond. That's okay; you didn't press for an answer. You already knew it.

Sherlock, who'd been rummaging through the receipts, suddenly whipped one out in a smooth flicking motion. "Look at this one," he ordered Amanda, who blushed immediately. Sherlock didn't notice. "Got a taxi from home the day he died; eighteen pounds fifty." 

"That'd get him to the office," Amanda said, reading it. 

"Not rush hour." Sherlock scattered around the receipts. "Check the time. Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as..."

"The West End!" she blurted. "I remember him saying!" 

Sherlock picked up a receipt card, inspected it, handed it to Amanda. "Underground, printed at one in Piccadilly."

"So he got a tube back to the office," you realized. "He might've been carrying something heavy and didn't want to carry it up the escalator."

"Delivering?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "to somewhere near Piccadilly station. Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." He paused, swiping up another card and staring at it. "Stopped on his way. He got peckish."

Wasting no time, he gathered a few important receipts and took off, making sure you were following him. 

"I think she was interested in you," you commented once you were far enough away for her not to hear. 

"Jealous?"

You didn't respond, but not just because you thought Sherlock was being childish. Because you honestly didn't know if it was true.

Together you and Sherlock quickly found the shop that Eddie had stopped at. "So he bought his lunch from here en route to the station, but where was he headed _from_?" Sherlock asked under his breath, more to himself then to you. He started rotating as he walked as if searching for something. "Where did the taxi drop him-?"

Sherlock cut off as someone suddenly crashed into him. Together they fell slightly, but Sherlock regained his balanced and sort of caught the stranger before either one could hit the ground. Except it wasn't a stranger; It was John. Both Sherlock and John were surprised to see each other.

Sherlock wasted no time immediately bringing John up to date. His next words were spitfire. "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died- whatever was hidden in that case. We've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information/credit card bills/receipts." John tried to say something multiple times, but Sherlock wouldn't stop. "He flew back from China, then he came here, somewhere in this street. Somewhere near. We don't know where, but-"

"That shop over there!" John blurted finally, pointing across the road.

Sherlock glanced at the shop, then back to John with confusion. "How can you tell?"

"Lukis' diary. He was here too." He held up the entry for you and Sherlock to read. "He wrote down the address."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh."

The shop was quaint but crowded- not with customers, but with merchandise. You were ultra-aware, almost certain that somehow you were going to slip and break one of the many pieces of pottery on display. There were a ton of decorative cats with one front leg raised, some bobbing their paws in an annoying, repetitive way.

John went to greet the shopkeeper, who eagerly lifted up one of the stupid cats. "You want lucky cat?" she asked in an accent.

"No thanks, no," John said.

"Ten pound. Ten _pound_!" She pleaded.

"No," John repeated awkwardly, smiling politely.

"But your husband, I think he will like!" She pressed, gesturing to Sherlock. You tried not to laugh and could see that Sherlock was a bit amused too, although he did a better job of hiding it. You decided you had to save John. 

"No thanks, ma'am, he's fine," you said, scooting John away from this awkward situation. His face was red.

Everyone started inspecting the shop, looking for any sort of clue regarding the case. Lifting up plates, peeking underneath tables, just keeping an eye out for anything unusual.

In one corner of the shop, Sherlock was lifting up a small ceramic cup and looking at the price tag on the bottom. He froze. "(Y/N). John."

You and John came over to see what it was. The same symbol from the graffiti was on the bottom of the cup. "Exactly the same as the cipher..." John murmured. As if you hadn't noticed.

You rubbed your temples with the injured hand, almost like you were dispelling a headache, and then it came to you. "It's a number system!" you realized. 

"Hangzhou," Sherlock confirmed. "I remember now. These days, only street traders use it." He swung open the door of the shop and led you and John to a nearby greengrocer. Sherlock picked up a vegetable that resembled a potato and showed the sticker with the price to you and John. "There, see? Number written in an ancient dialect."

"It's fifteen!" you exclaimed, noticing the smaller side number for English-speaking customers on a sign nearby. "What we thought was the artist tag, it's the number fifteen!"

"And the blindfold, the horizontal line," said Sherlock, grinning with an excitement in his eyes. "That was a number too. The Chinese number one!"

"We've found it!" John cheered.

Sherlock turned and started walking across from the Lucky Cat shop, the name of the little store you were just in. You and John started to follow but out of the corner of your eye you saw a lady holding up a camera in yours and John's directions. You nudge John, who looks up at you and follows your gaze to the East Asian woman.

"Second time I've seen her," John muttered. "I don't think it's a coincidence."

You stared at her, but she didn't move, just held up her camera. "Might be nothing," you told John, although you knew that wasn't really true. Because, coincidence?

The universe was rarely so lazy.

"Don't worry about it. Let's go."

Unnerved, he walked back with you to the store opposite of the Lucky Cat, where Sherlock already sat staking it out. We was taking notes about the Hangzhou numbers on a paper napkin.

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see? Well, it's not about what they saw," he said as soon as you two sat down beside him. "It's about what they brought back in those suitcases of theirs. And I don't mean duty free."

A waitress came in and set down a little plate of noodles or something. John gave Sherlock a questioning look.

"Ordered ahead of time. I can't just sit in a restaurant without getting something," Sherlock explained. John shrugged and started to eat. He was probably pretty hungry anyway; it'd been a while since anyone had eaten.

" Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market," you said. "Lost five million-"

"Made it back in a week," Sherlock finished. John nodded and swallowed a mouthful of food. "That's how he made such easy money," Watson stated. "He was a smuggler."

"A guy like him- it would've been perfect..." Sherlock murmured softly.

Just then, your smartphone dinged. You didn't bother pulling it out; you knew it was a text notification and so Mycroft had resorted to texting you since you weren't answering any of his calls. You'd found a few recording devices in your flat after all, and were still mad at him about it. "A business man," you said, just to get your mind off of the matter. Sherlock could tell you were bothered, and you could tell he wanted to ask you something desperately, but held his tongue. "Making frequent trips to Asia, and Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their dropoff." 

"But why did they die? I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" Sherlock implored. John looked equally troubled.

"Maybe one of them was light fingered," you offered. "Stole something from the hoard."

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took something, so he threatens them both!" John exclaimed with a smile. "Right!"

Sherlock was staring amusedly at John's excited expression, much like a child when you noticed something outside- the open windows of the flat beside the Lucky Cat. Your gazed sharpened. 

"Remind me," you said quietly, standing up. Sherlock looked up at you and then followed your eyes outside. He inhaled sharply and stood up, ready to leave. You lowered your eyes to ground level, at a Yellow Pages directory in a plastic bag. It was right outside of a lonely white door just beside the Lucky Cat. "When was the last time that it rained?"

-

You crouched and investigated the Yellow Pages just as John caught up. The plastic had little bits of water and was split open at the top just a bit. You ran a finger over the top. "It's been here since Monday," you deduced. You stood up and rang the doorbell, but didn't wait by the door for more than a few seconds before you darted round the corner to an wide alleyway beside the door. 

"No one's been in that flat for three days," Sherlock said behind you.

"Could've gone on holiday," John suggested. 

"D' _you_ leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock retorted. 

You took another sharp turn, to the left this time. Back of the flat now. Maybe a foot and a half or two above you was a fire escape with a cantilever. Without hesitation, you did a sort of double jump- one small hop in place and then a larger jump- and brought the ladder down. You smiled, because you hadn't been sure you'd actually be able to get it down. Sherlock would certainly have been able to, but you weren't gonna ask him.

You quickly climbed up and Sherlock followed without hesitation. You heard the metal creak as the ladder swung back into a horizontal position, and then John hissing "Sherlock! (Y/N)!"

But no time to go back and push the ladder down now. What good would it do, anyway?

Instead, you and Sherlock entered the flat. You almost immediately knocked over a vase full of flowers, but you managed to catch it at the very last second. 

Instead of bringing the vase back up to its little table, you paused, staring at a wet spot on the beautifully detailed rug. It was right where the vase would have fallen, had you not caught it. Sherlock must have noticed it too, for he muttered, "Someone's been here before us."

"Yeah," you said. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did." you started walking around the room investigating, checking seemingly random items for clues. Meanwhile, Sherlock headed to a different area of the flat, presumably to do the same thing. 

The doorbell rang a few times and you heard John whining from outside every so often, saying things such as "D'you think maybe you could let me in?" or "Can you _not_ keep doing this, please?"

You opened the fridge and peered in. Saw some milk, took it out and sniffed it.

"(Y/N)!?" John yelled through the mail slot. "What's going on?"

"I'm not the first!" you called out, this time so that John could hear.

"What?"

You raised your voice. "Someone's been here before me!"

"What are you saying?" He still couldn't hear you, but this time you didn't bother to repeat yourself. You shook your head, looking down, and noticed something: a fold in the rug that must have been left by the previous intruder's shoe. "Size eight feet," you muttered to yourself, looking at it. You walked through the hanging beads before you and into a new room that had a shoji screen. 

The rug stretched through to this room and on the rug was a similar fold. Still crouching, you examined the mark. "Small, but athletic." 

You straightened. Thinking. Looked around the room, more to stimulate your brain than anything else, but instead, your eyes fell on a photo. A tender picture of two happy young children. Cute, but that wasn't what was important. What was important was the fresh (obvious from the measurements of the dust on the glass screen) handprint there. 

You voiced your own thoughts: "Small, strong hands. An acrobat. But why didn't he close the window when he left-?" You broke off and our eyes widened. "Oh!" you exclaimed softly. "Oh, stupid. _Stupid._ Obvious- he's still here." You twisted your head around the room and to the delicate folding screen. 

You slowly padded toward the screen, careful not to step anywhere where the floor was likely to creak, then slowly lay your hand on the edge, and... pulled it back. Nothing. 

Nothing except a tall, cushiony chair with no back and a few stuffed animals. You only had a millisecond to relax before something white flashed before your eyes and a terrifying pressure was applied to your throat, making you painfully cry out. "Sherlock!" 

The pressure increased as a result and the attacker threw you backwards. You clawed at the cloth around your neck in vain, struggling pitifully against the assailant. But your energy was increasingly weakening and spots of red were entering your vision.

You heard John from downstairs, hollering, " _Any_ time you want to include me!" 

_John!_ You didn't even have the ability to call out your friend's name out loud. _John..._

 _"...._ my _massive intellect!"_ he shouted. Or maybe that was your delirious mind making you hear things.

You were losing consciousness. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought of Sherlock. Your arms fell away from the cloth around your neck. Your last drop of energy slipping away....

And then suddenly, the pressure on your neck lifted. You lay on the rug, only able to form sluggish thoughts. Your eyes were half-closed, staring weakly at the ceiling, but you didn't need to look to know that Sherlock had come to your rescue.

_Come to my rescue? What am I, some sort of damsel in distress?_

With a bout of determination, you rolled over, coughing hoarsely, and forced yourself to your feet to meet a wave of pain in our head.

Seconds later, Sherlock was by your side with a terrified look. "(Y/N)? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" you croaked, pushing him away with the cloth-wrapped hand. He stood back, but the worry in his eyes didn't diminish at all. "Where did he go?" you asked hoarsely.

"The person who attacked you? He got away."

"Oh, well! Well done with _that,_ " you growled sarcastically, even though it hurt to talk. Sherlock looked almost hurt. You shoved past him and down the stairs, flinging open the door so hard that it nearly knocked John into the street.

You shut the door behind you, though Sherlock immediately opened it to step out himself.

"Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago," you whispered to John (it still hurt to speak and probably would for a while), ignoring his angry look as well as Sherlock's concerned one. 

"Somebody?" John asked.

You glanced over at the label by the door. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her." You looked to the foot of the door, where a folded envelope was, and picked it up. On the back of it, it said: "SOO LIN Please ring me. Tell me you're OK. -Andy"and on the back was scribbled the title "National Antiquities Museum."

You walked out and trotted along with John at your side. "You've gone all croaky," he said. "Are you getting a cold?"

"I'm fine." You coughed.

The entire walk, you avoided making eye contact with Sherlock, which was easy enough because he hung a few feet behind. At one point, you remembered about the attacker pushing something into your pocket. You dug it out and looked at it, using your jacket to block the object from John's (and Sherlock's) view.

It was a black origami flower. 


	4. Does Not Compute

You were pacing by a display case, interviewing Andy. You'd taken the cloth off of your hurt hand- it was too uncomfortable and inconvenient to keep on. Sherlock and John hung back a few feet away, and you had an inkling that they were talking about you.

"When was the last time you saw her?" you asked Andy, trying to keep your mind off of the Baker Street boys.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum," he answered nervously. You focused for a moment on a partially glass stand that showed off some clay pots. Most were dull and even a bit cracked. One shiny teapot, however, stood out among the rest.

"This morning, they told me she's resigned just like that," Andy went on. "Just... left her work, unfinished."

You glanced at another case with some figurines, then moved on to a piece of artwork. You turned back to Andy. "What did she do last on her final afternoon?" you asked.

He brought the group down to the basement archive. "She does this demonstration for the tourists," he was explaining as he led everyone down. "A-a tea ceremony. So she'd've packed up her things and just put them in here." He led everyone to a section that was already cracked open and was probably opening it up, but you walked right past and to the end of the corridor.

There, at the end of the hall, was a marble statue with the Chinese symbol. It was another number in the same yellow paint as before.

It had happened here.

It was getting dark as you exited the building with Sherlock and John. "We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," you were telling them.

"If she's still alive," added John. You nodded to him and then out of nowhere a separate voice cried out: "Sherlock!"

It took you a second to place the voice as Raz's. He was running over and took a moment to catch his breath when he reached everyone. "Found something you'll like," he said after a moment of panting. He turned and trotted off.

Fast forward a bit and you, Raz, and the boys are at the South Skate Park.

"So, Tuesday morning," John said out of the blue, "all you gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours." 

You laughed and so did Sherlock. "John, forget about your court date," you told him. He looked at you as if the idea was preposterous.

"If you want to hide a tree," Sherlock interjected, seeming to have noticed something ahead, "then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say? People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

Raz pointed toward some brick walls dotted heavily with colorful graffiti. "There," he said. "Spotted it there earlier." 

There were indeed signs of the Chinese symbols, but other graffiti covered most of it now. "They have been in here," you corrected, giving Sherlock a tired look. He ignored you, probably still nervous about the whole I-was-being-choked-and-you-saved-my-life-but-angst-and-all-that-and-also-you-let-the-attacker-go-so-maybe-screw-you situation.

"Is that the exact paint?" Sherlock asked Raz. Raz nodded. "Well, if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

"We should split up and look around. I'll go with John," you volunteered. A bit of a low blow, since if you really thought that splitting up was the best idea, you'd go alone. And Sherlock knew that. He stared at you uncertainly, but then finally nodded his okay.

So, you and John went one way to search for clues, while Sherlock, all alone, went the other. Raz split. 

Soon enough you and John reached a railway, and the streetlamps that lit the path before were much more sparse. You whipped out your smartphone to use the flashlight. On the screen was a notification that said, 44 texts from Mycroft Holmes. You ignored it and turned on the light.

"So, do you not like Sherlock?" John asked as the two of you walked. He'd pulled out a torch of his own as well.

"What do you mean, like?"

"Just like. Not like like. Or do you like like him?"

"No."

"Okay." There was a minute or so of silence as the two of you walked along the rail. John took a deep breath. "So, as that a no to like liking him or not liking him at all?"

"Listen, John," you said, annoyed. You almost shined the light in his face, but then remembered that that was maybe not the smartest idea, and brought it back to your surroundings. "I... You're one of my only friends besides Molly. And Sherlock is an arrogant sod. Not just that, he's a prick. But he's smart, so I respect him, even if he can be an idiot at times. I-I just-"

"Well, he told me what happened in Soo Lin's flat," John interrupted. "He said he was really... scared when he was fighting the man that attacked you and-"

"He let him get away!" you snapped.

"Okay, but..." John swung his flashlight 'round to the other side of the tracks and stopped. You looked over to find a wall covered entirely in the yellow Chinese numbers. You looked over at John, whose jaw dropped. "We have to get Sherlock. Call him."

Later, the two of you had found Sherlock and led him back to the heavily graffiti'd wall, but...

John's jaw dropped when he saw the wall. "It's been painted over! I-I don't understand. It was here.... ten minutes ago. We saw it. A whole load of graffiti!" You took a step back and glared at the wall, almost like you were expecting the new paint on top to melt away so that you could see the graffiti beneath. 

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock muttered. He turned on to you. "(Y/N), do you remember what it looked like?"

You shrugged helplessly and shook your head. "Barely even looked at it before we went to get you- John was the one who found it." Sherlock grimaced and turned on his heels to John this time, grabbing John's head with both hands and staring into his eyes intensely.

"Er, Sherlock, what are you doing?" you asked, rather afraid they were about to kiss or something.

"Shhh. John, I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

John tried to step back, but Sherlock's grip was firm. "No, what? Why? Why?"

"I need you to maximize your visual memory, try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John answered, glancing at you with a look that cried for help. You stifled a laugh.

"Can you remember it?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern!?"

"Yes!" 

"But how much can you remember it?"

It was time you stepped in. "Sherlock, you don't need to worry-"

"The average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate!" Sherlock spouted.

"I remember all of it!" John sighed.

Sherlock blinked. "Really?"

"Well, yeah, at least I would-" he pulled himself free of Sherlock's grip. "If I could get to my pockets!" He looked through his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "I took a photograph." 

Everyone hopped in a cab. Sherlock was still examining the photo. "Always in pairs," he muttered.

"No shit, Sherlock," you said under your breath. "Numbers come with partners." 

Beside you, John sighed. "I need to get some sleep. Why can't we go back to the flat and work on it tomorrow?"

"Don't be so boring, John" you chided. 

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "What good is sleep when we have to face the question of why the graffiti was painted to near the tracks? Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"Just thirty minutes," John groaned.

"He could want information," you offered. "Could be trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back."

Sherlock nodded slowly, still examining the snapshot. "The answer is somewhere in the code..." He looked up just as the cab slowed to a stop beside the museum. "But we can't solve this without Soo Lin Yao."

Back in the display room, Sherlock and John this time were interrogating Andy, while you looked through the cases. 

"Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock told Andy, "and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger!" John added. "Now, that cipher- it was just the same pattern as the others; He means to kill her as well."

"Look, I-I-I've tried everywhere!" Andy stammered. "Um, friends, colleagues. I-I don't know where she's gone. She could be a thousand miles away."

As Sherlock and John continued to talk sternly to poor Andy, your eyes fell on the glass stand with the teapots. Something was different.

"Tell me about these teapots," you ordered Andy suddenly. He looked over, startled. 

"Th-the pots were her... obsession. Er, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you just have to keep making tea in them."

You narrowed your eyes. "Well yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. And now, there are two."

Late at night in the museum, much past closing time, small, delicate hands reach through bars in a floor vent and push the grating outwards. A figure emerged and snaked across the dark room until it reached the tall glass display stand with the teapots. The shadow carefully removed a dull, cracked pot and closed the display back up. And then it left.

You trailed quietly, making sure to stick out of sight. You were led to a separate employee room with very dim lighting that revealed the shadow to be a young Asian woman. She carefully set the pot down at a table and began to prepare tea. You snuck up behind as she started the restoration process.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" you asked her quietly from behind. She gasped and whipped around, dropping the delicate teapot, but you reacted instantly and caught the pot right before it hit the floor. You looked up. 

"Centuries old," you murmured. "Wouldn't want to break that." As you spoke, you offered the pot back to her and she took it gingerly. You flipped on a light that lit up the desk and gave the slightest smile. "Soo Lin Yao," you said. "Hello."

You stood across from Soo Lin, the only thing separating you a small table. On the right side of the table was John, on the left, Sherlock.

"You saw the cipher," Soo Lin said quietly. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock admitted.

Soo Lin took a shaky breath. "I had to finish...to finish this work. It is only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" you asked. "Have you met him before?"

"When I was a girl, living back in China," she confirmed, nodding. "I recognize his signature."

"The cipher?" John asked.

"Only he would do this," Soo Lin muttered. "Zhi Zhu."

"The Spider," said Sherlock.

Soo Lin bent down to unlace her shoe and take it off. On the underside of her heel was a tattoo of the same black flower left with every victim. "Do you know this mark?" Soo Lin asked softly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "It's the mark of a Tong."

Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew that title. "The ancient crime syndicate in China?"

Soo Lin nodded solemnly. "Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them."

"Hauls?" John's eyes widened. "You mean you were a smuggler?"

She lowered her gaze and put her shoe back on. "I was fifteen," Soo Lin began. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

"Who were they?" You queried.

Soo Lin looked up at you with frightened eyes. "They are called the Black Lotus," she replied, speaking barely above a whisper. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me!" She smiled wistfully. "I came to England. They gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life..." she trailed off.

"But then he came looking for you," finished Holmes.

Soo Lin swallowed and struggled not to cry. "Yes. I- I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours, they are never very far away." She reached up to her face to wipe a tear away and continued. "he came to my flat. He asked me to help him track down something that was stolen."

John leaned forward. "Do you know what it was?"

Soo Lin shrugged and replied shakily, "I refused to help."

John glanced at you and Sherlock and then back to Soo Lin. "So... you knew him well back in China?"

"Oh, yes." She looked over to you. "He is my brother... Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan- the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work, and the cipher was waiting."

At the mention of the cipher, Sherlock whipped out his phone. He showed the pictures of the graffiti from each scene. "Can you decipher these?" he asked her.

She glanced at the photos, then back up to Sherlock. "These are numbers."

"We know," you told her.

She looked back down. "Here: The like across the man's eyes- it is the Chinese number one." She was pointing to the photo from the bank.

Sherlock scrolled to another photo and pointed at one of the yellow marks. "And this one is fifteen. But what is the code?"

Soo Lin frowned. "All the smugglers know it- It's based upon a book-" She broke off as suddenly, the lights went off. Soo Lin gasped. "He's here! Zhi Zhu, he has found me!"

You bolted off immediately, heart pounding. "(Y/N)!" John and Sherlock called behind you. "Wait!"

You raced across an open space with staircases on each side of the room leading up to another floor. You came to a halt and looked around. All of a sudden a man ran across the balcony and the sound of a shot went off, followed by the sound of shattering glass. You nearly jumped out of your skin, but instinct took over and sent you running the opposite direction before he could fire at you again.

You flung yourself around the corner of a stand and slid behind it as more bullets rained down. The shooting stopped for only a second, prompting you to peek out from behind the stand. The shooter was running across the balcony. Not wasting a second, you dashed after in pursuit. _I'm not his target_. The attacker disappeared into another display room. You entered slowly, cautiously, eyes scanning the area.

There were a few tense moments of silence. And then, like the sound of thunder, you heard gunfire. Glass crashed and you barely had enough time to register where they were coming from before you were gone again, racing in a maze of glass displays, one with ancient skulls. The bullets continued to fly.

"Careful!" you cried out. "Some of those skulls are over two-" another gunshot- "thousand years old! Have a bit of _respect_!" You leaned against one of the cases, panting. The shooting had stopped.

"Thank you!"

Still no sound. You slowly rose.

And then you heard it. The gunshot. Only one, which meant it was made with finality and aim. Too far away for you to be in any danger, but panic flooded your system nonetheless. Soo Lin Yao was in danger-- _John_ and _Sherlock_ were in danger.

Just as you turned the corner to the hallway that led to the restoration room, you came upon a face-full of _coat_. Arms wrapped around you in a tight hug. It was Sherlock. To your own surprise, you hugged him back.

"I thought you'd been shot!" Sherlock exclaimed breathlessly, pulling away from you as you stepped out at the same time.

"I'm fine," you told him.. "I thought _you'd_ been shot, or- or John-"

"You two are fine!" John yelped behind you. You twisted around to see him running up as well. "I heard a gunshot, I thought...."  
Wait. If you, Sherlock, and John were okay, then that meant...

"Soo Lin Yao," you blurted. You looked down the corridor with wide eyes. "Oh my god."

Her body lay dead on the table you had left her at, her outstretched hand holding in its palm a black origami flower. Soo Lin Yao was dead.


	5. Intermission

  
The next day, after half a night's rest, you set off with John's company. Surprising yourself, you even let Sherlock come along.

Dimmock was doing his best to ignore the group. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge anyone's pesterance.

"How many murder is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John bashed as Dimmock turned from his desk to walk right between you and John, not even gracing either of you with eye contact. "A young girl was gunned down tonight," John continued angrily. "That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be _finding_ him."

You leaned in close to Dimmock from across the table with a scowl. In a quiet but intense voice, you told him, "Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers- a gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose."

Dimmock took a deep breath and slowly met your eyes. "Can you prove that?"

You straightened and looked over to Sherlock, who'd been staring at you. You raised a brow and he looked thoughtful. "I might have a way," Holmes said.

  
"What are you thinking- pork or the pasta?" Sherlock asked beside Molly. She was going along the counter with a platter. In her right hand was a clipboard.

At the sound of his voice, she jumped a little and blushed. "Oh, it's you!" she exclaimed. She hadn't expected to see Sherlock at St Bartholemew's at all, much less in the canteen.

Sherlock smirked. "This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" Sherlock commented humorously. He winked. "I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want to be doing roast pork- not if you're slicing up cadavers."

Molly, flustered, smiled nervously. "What are you having?"

"Oh, I don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down."

Molly swallowed nervously. "So you're working here tonight?"

"Need to examine some bodies."

"'Some'?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

Molly suddenly frowned. She looked to the clipboard. "They're on my list..."

Sherlock turned on his puppy eyes. "Could you wheel them out again for me?"

"Well... the paperwork's already gone through," she told him uncertainly.

He'd known this might happen. Sherlock lifted his eyes a little as if noticing something. He frowned and pointed to Hooper's hair. "You've... changed your hair," he said.

Molly blinked. "What?"

"The-the style. It's usually parted down the middle."

"Y-yes, well-"

"Mm, it's good. It, um, suits you better this way."

Molly smiled flusteredly. She turned back to the display, a moonstruck look upon her face that made you feel sick.

As soon as she turned away, Sherlock dropped his own smile and looked impatiently at his watch. He looked up at you across the canteen and tilted his head with sympathy. Although you didn't appreciate him playing Molly's emotions, you had to admit it was the best chance the group had at really moving on in this case.

And, as it turned out, it was the right chance to take. Molly unzipped one of the body bags in the morgue, revealing the face of Brian Lukis. Dimmock was in the room too. "We're just interested in the feet," you said to her.

She gave you a weird look. "The feet?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "D'you mind if we have a look at them?"

At his prompting, she obliged. You made a sour face. 

"Jealous?" Sherlock asked smugly in a quiet voice.

"Why would I be jealous?" you shot back defensively.

"Oh, I don't know, just...." he smirked. "Oh, never mind, I'm not really one to comment on human relationships."

Your jaw dropped. "Sherlock Holmes! What is that supposed to mean?" He turned away and didn't answer. "No, seriously, Sherlock, what is that supposed to mean!?"

But now Sherlock strided across the room and to Lukis's dead body. He pushed the sides of the bag outwards slightly to reveal a black tattoo just like the one Soo Lin had. John saw the tattoo and gave Dimmock a smug look. 

"Now Van Coon," Sherlock said.

Molly unzipped the bottom of the other body bag. Van Coon had an identical tattoo.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped, clearly sarcastic.

"So..." Dimmock's face was pale.

"So, either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour and chose the exact same designs, or I'm telling the truth."

Dimmock sighed. "What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment and Van Coon's."

Dimmock blinked. "Their books?"

Back at the flat now. Watson and Holmes took off their coats and hung them up, but you kept yours on.

"It's not just a criminal organisation," you said. "It's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders, General Shan."

"We're still no closer to finding them," John pointed out.

"On the contrary," argued Sherlock, "We've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces." Sherlock started walking up the stairs while John gave you a questioning look.

"Why did he need to visit his sister?" you asked John impatiently, willing him to understand. "Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum?" he guessed.

You smiled approvingly. "Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities!" John exclaimed, starting to catch up. "Of course. I see."

"Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the back market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution."

"And the Black Lotus is selling them," John said.

That gave you an idea. Without a word, you were off to your own room.

You pulled out your laptop from the nightstand beside the couch in the living room and quickly found your way to an auction website, mostly ones based on Asian art pieces. You need to check for the dates, you reminded yourself. You noticed a particular auction lot for two Chinese Ming vases. Arrived from China four days ago. Source was anonymous.

"Vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East," you spoke to yourself. "One for Lukis' suitcase and one for Van Coon's." You inhaled sharply and started typing "Chinese antiquities sold at auction." Another one like the others, an auction for a Chinese ceramic statue that arrived from China a month ago and sold for four hundred thousand. And a month before that, a Chinese painting was sold for half a million.

All of them were from an anonymous source. They were stealing them back in China and one by one, feeding them into Britain. It had to be Lukis and Van Coon; there was no other option. 

"What if one of them got greedy while in China?" you wondered aloud. "What if one of them stole something?"

That was why Zhi Zhu had come...

A knock by the entrance to the living room startled you. You looked up to see your darling aunt. "Sorry," she apologised. "Are we collecting for charity, dear?"

"What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books."

You shut the laptop and stood up. "Thanks, Aunt Hudson. Could you please tell Sherlock and John?"

Shortly afterwards, two uniformed men were hauling in one of many evidence crates of books. 

"So, the numbers are references," John reviewed. "To books."

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages," Sherlock confirmed.

"Right." You nodded. "So, fifteen and one. That means turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read."

John nodded slowly as if he understood. "Right, so, what's the message?"

"Depends on the book," Sherlock replied snarkily. "That's the cunning of the book code- has to be one that they both owned."

John sighed, looking around at the stacks of crates of books in the room. "Okay, right. Well, this shouldn't take too long, should it?"

You were going through a crate when you noticed that it seemed familiar. You looked around at a few books around you until you spotted it- the same one, a heavy hard-back copy of "Transition." 

But when you checked the fifteenth page, you were disappointed to find that the word was cigarette. Clearly not something relevant to what you were looking for. You slammed the book closed and tossed it and its partner onto a nearby desk.

It happened again with another book. This time, the word was 'imagine.' You tossed that book and its match to the desk as well.

And hours later, progress was still slow. The stack of useless books on the table grew and grew until you'd had to put some on the floor instead. Sherlock and John hadn't made much more progress either.

Finally, something other than the eventless searching occurred. John's watch beeped. 

He looked down at it, then buried his head in his hands. He let out an exaggerated sigh.

"What? What is it?" you asked.

"I've got work."

You smiled sympathetically, knowing that John had gotten even less sleep than you last night; only a few hours.

So he left, and you and Sherlock searched a bit more. For hours. Finally, your patience wore thin. "Sherlock," you said, "It's got to be a book that everybody would own, hasn't it?"

Sherlock paused and looked up, thinking. He whipped around to his own bookshelf and you watched as he took out the Oxford Dictionary. "Add."

He set it aside and pulled out another book that you didn't quite catch, and turned to page fifteen. "Nostril."

Now, the Bible. "I." 

"Well, that's not very helpful is it?" you asked. 

Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration just as Watson walked in, looking a bit more energetic than this morning. "I'm going to get some air," Holmes sighed. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've got a date tonight!" John said.

Both you and Sherlock turned to stare at him. "What?" The two of you asked at the same time. 

"Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?" John smirked, glancing inbetween you and Sherlock. 

Sherlock didn't notice. He frowned. "But that's what I was suggesting."

John sniggered. "No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not." 

Sherlock's eyes had the slightest hint of disappointment. "Where are you taking her?"

"Er, the cinema."

You shook your head. "Dull, boring, predictable." While you spoke, Sherlock pulled out a red paper card advertising a Chinese circus performance. He gestured for John to take it.

"Why don't you try this?" Sherlock suggested, almost a challenge in his voice.

John took it and stared at the card. He laughed. "Er, thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice." 

You rolled your eyes. You knew what that meant.

It meant, of course, that John ended up taking Sherlock's dating advice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a shorter chapter.


	6. Double Date Delict

John approached the servicer with his date, Sarah Sawyer, by his side. He hoped he didn't betray his own nervousness, but most of his dates had a tendency to go _astray,_ mostly as a result of something to do with you or Sherlock.

"Hi, I have two tickets reserved for tonight," he told the attendee, a shaggy-haired young adult.

"And, what's the name?" The servicer asked politely.

"Er, Holmes." John pulled out his wallet as the worker reached to the side to check the reservations schedule.

"Actually, I have _four_ under that name," the attendee said.

John frowned. "No, I don't think so, I only booked two."

"Then we phoned back and got one ourselves," you added helpfully.

John visibly cringed. He slowly turned around to face you and Holmes with a pained expression.

"I'm Sherlock," Holmes introduced, extending a hand to Sarah. "And this is (Y/N)."

She laughed nervously. "Uh, hi."

He nodded and said, "Hello." Sarah tilted her head in confusion, and then he promptly walked away and toward the event. John sighed.

"Sorry about him," you told Sawyer. "He's not one for social interaction. Come to think of it, neither am I. I better follow him. It was nice to meet you!" Sometime later, John came and met you and Sherlock at the stairs.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off," he complained irritably.

"The Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day, it fits," you explained apologetically.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "The Tong sent an assassin-"

"Dressed as a tightrope walker!?" John scoffed. "Come on, you two, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope," Sherlock pressed on. "Where else would you find that level of dexterity?"

"Exit visas are scarce in China," you told John more patiently than Holmes would have managed. "They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I-" Sherlock raised a brow at you and you corrected yourself- "we need to do is have a quick look around the place."

"Fine, you do that." John was still pissed. "I'm going to take Sarah for a pint."

You grabbed his arm as he turned to walk away. "John, we need your help!"

John made a sour face. "(Y/N), I do have a couple of _other things_ on my mind."

"Like _what_?" Sherlock scoffed.

John stared at him in disbelief. "You are kidding?"

You winced. "Sherlock, he does have a date, maybe-"

"Right, thanks, (Y/N)!" said John. "Sherlock, you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to-?" he hesitated.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "While you're trying to what?"

"While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finally answered, reaching the end of his patience. And obviously, that's when Sarah just had show up behind John. He jumped slightly and smiled awkwardly. "Hey.... ready?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped up the stairs.

You sighed and followed. "Sherlock!" you called, skipping steps. He stopped and turned to you, annoyed. "You really should be more sensitive around John," you told him as you caught up.

"Why? And why does he even want to 'get off' with Sarah? Why would a relationship be any more concerning than a case?" Sherlock pouted. Now that you'd caught up with him, he took off at a brisk pace again, you walking alongside.

"One day, you'll find someone that'll get it through your thick skull that love is a thing, and that sentiment is not just a 'chemical defect found on the losing side,' as Mycroft so loves to put it."

Sherlock paused in his stride and looked at you. You stopped.

"What? What is it?" you asked. "Nothing." Sherlock shook himself. "Nothing," he repeated, almost as if he was trying to convince his own mind of something. He kept walking.

The performance area was large and airy. There weren't a lot of people there, but just as well, because there weren't any seats either. At the end of the room was a curtained stage, and right in front of it was a wide circle of lit candles that were the only things lighting up the room. Sherlock was putting on a show of his own, turning in slow circles and looking all around the room, including the ceiling. You were also observing the room, but much less dramatically then him. And more importantly, much less obviously.

John and Sarah were standing facing the circle of candles, waiting for the show to start, and you and Sherlock were behind them.

"Sherlock, you said circus," John grumbled over his shoulder in a quiet voice, trying not to let Sarah hear. She definitely heard. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd! This is..." he made a sour face. "Art."

"Well, it's not their day job," you reminded him.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot." John rolled his eyes. "They're not a circus, they're a _gang of international smugglers_."

Just then, a regular light tapping of the drum sounded out. You glanced at Sherlock as the drum continued, and he raised a brow. Let the show begin.

A Chinese woman with heavy traditional makeup, a pink, ornate Chinese dress and sparkly feathered headdress walked calmly onto center stage, or rather, center circle-of-candles? The woman raised a hand and the drumming sped up, but then stopped altogether. Now, the woman walked to the right side of the stage, where a large object stood, draped in purple cloth. Dramatic oriental music softly played; a tense riff. She pulled back the cloth dramatically reveal a sort of contraption with a huge crossbow on one end. Beside the contraption was a bucket full of arrows. The Chinese woman pulled out one of the arrows and displayed it to the audience. One side of the arrow had a full on feather-duster, while the other, a dangerously sharp point, you thought.

Now she pulled out of her hat a small white feather. The woman once again showed the feather to the audience. She then turned to the contraption beside her and to loaded the arrow into it, then raised up the arrow above a metal disk attached to the contraption. She paused for dramatic effect. The woman gently dropped the feather onto the disk, and instantly, the arrow was shot out. You followed the arrow's flight while the audience was still gasping at the sound of the arrow's release.

Sarah laughed at her thrilled reaction to the arrow being released, putting a hand over her heart as if to mock her own surprise. The oriental instrumentals began again. The audience applauded as a new character entered the scene, a man wearing heavy chainmail and a delicately designed head mask. He held his arms out to the sides and two men came over. They began to attach chains and straps to the armored man, restraining his arms in front of him and then backing him up against a wooden board. They started chaining him to that, too.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock muttered. John and Sarah looked at him.

"Hm?" John hummed.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," you observed. "The chained-up guy probably has to escape his bonds before it fires." As you spoke, the Chinese woman loaded up another arrow into the contraption. As if her movement was an order, the two other men yanked another chain around the warrior and pulled it tight. The warrior cried out. The tensity of the music increased, and cymbals crashed unexpectedly.

Sarah jumped and clinged to John's arm. She realized what she'd done. "Oh! Sorry!" She laughed nervously and took his arm with her other hand as well.

Sherlock looked disgusted as John laughed with her. Meanwhile, the Chinese woman picked up a small knife and showed it to the audience like she had with the arrow.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out. Gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl," Sherlock whispered to you, his lips practically against your ear.

She did just as he said and stabbed a small sandbag that you hadn't noticed before. The sandbag was attached to a string that had, on the other side, a weight. As the sand poured out, just like Holmes predicted, the weight slowly lowered. The chained man cried out dramatically as he struggled and pulled at the chains and straps. The weight was ever inching closer as he grunted with effort.

There was a tense drumbeat and the warrior got one hand free. Sarah watched nervously with John as the weight got closer. By now the warrior had gotten his other chain free and was tugging at the chains around his neck. The weight was getting dangerously closed. Sarah clutched John's arm tighter, anticipating the warrior's doom. He cried out again, still pulling at the chains as the weight got ever closer. It was just above the lip of the disk when he finally loosened the chains and struggled to free himself. The arrow fired.

Sarah gasped with relief- the warrior had escaped at the very last second. "Thank go," she breathed.

John nodded in agreement, clearly impressed by the act. John looked around for you and Sherlock, to see your reactions, but you were nowhere to be found.

The reason that John couldn't find you was because you were sneaking around backstage. Sounded like a scene out of a high school romcom. You searched through the stage, looking for anything that could be related to Lukis or Van Coon. Sherlock stayed by your side this time, instead of heading off like he did at Soo Lin Yao's flat. He knew that it was dangerous, and he didn't want to make the same mistake he did last time. No, he was going to stay by your side in case someone attacked.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," you heard the Chinese woman's soft voice announce outside. "From the distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present, for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider!" The applause that followed prompted you to take a peek at what was happening. You watched as an acrobat fluidly soared and danced in the air, held up by nothing more than a few glossy ribbons.

"Well, well," you muttered. Unexpectedly, a door opened on the side of the stage. Sherlock grabbed your arm and pulled you into a loaded clothes rail. You wanted to push him away, but you remained silent. The lady who'd loaded the arrows had walked in.

Sherlock moved, probably trying to get a better view, and unfortunately made a few of the hangers move. You winced and held your breath. Moments later, the woman left. You sighed in relief, and then hit Sherlock's arm.

"Nice move!"

He lowered his gaze to the ground and then suddenly his eyes lit up. "(Y/N), look!" he whispered. All you could see in the dim lighting was a black duffel bag, but then he pulled out a yellow spray-paint can. "Found you," Sherlock murmured in a sing song voice. You raised a brow. He pushed through the hangers and hopped over to a mirror lit up by lightbulbs on the frame and Sherlock sprayed one heavy line of paint. Looking at him through the mirror, you noticed that his eyes were a warm gray now. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened and he whipped around.

It was a heavily-armored warrior with an oriental face mask. Sherlock and you had seen him, but thought that it was a statue or just an outfit. The warrior advanced with a long knife, swiping it in the air toward you and Sherlock. You ducked and walked backwards as the warrior advanced. Sherlock stepped in front of you and used the can to block a blow from the warrior, then clouting the can across the attacker's elbow. The warrior's response was to bring back his arm into Sherlock's stomach, making Sherlock stumble back and grunt from the force of the blow. Sherlock dropped the can and it started to roll away. You went after it.

Just as you picked it up and turned around, the warrior had Sherlock by the throat, but he'd dropped the knife. You took the opportunity and sprayed the can directly on the warrior's face, as you do. Sherlock tackled him. The warrior fell on to his back, but immediately did an impressive kip-up. He took a big step and launched himself into a complicated spinning kick, knocking you off of the stage and into the open room in front but fallng offstage himself in the process. Before you knew it, John was at your side fighting the warrior. The acrobat you took to be Zhi Zhu saw the scene and took off in a panic.

You tried to get up to follow, but the warrior punched you in the face (rude) and you fell to the ground. And that's when Sarah joined in. She grabbed an arrow and charged toward the warrior, slicing at his armor with it. The warrior cried out in pain, but before he could really react, Sarah brought the arrow down on his ribs. He fell to the ground and she swung it over his head. He fell unconscious.

John had gotten a good one. You grinned at her and she smiled back, giving a small nod. Beside you, Sherlock- when did he leave the stage?- leaned over the unconscious body of the warrior. He pulled off the shoe and there, plain as day, was a black lotus tattoo. You got up, ignoring the rush of pain in your head.

"We were right." Detective Inspector Dimmock swung open the door to the office, followed by you, Sherlock, John, and a rather bewildered Sarah.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is completely deserted," Dimmock said. Clearly not in a very good mood.

"Look, we saw the mark on a man at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," you told him- but he would have none of it. He stormed over to his desk.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," Sherlock reiterated. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," John added

. "Get what back?" demanded the D.I.

Sherlock winced. "We... don't know."

Dimmock scowled. "You don't _know_ ," he repeated slowly.

The D.I. shook his head, self-righteously dumbfounded and sat down. "I've done _everything_ you two asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime."


	7. Hair Accessories Are Overrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops been a while

Sherlock led John and Sarah into the living room, still crowded with stacks of crates of books that had, at this point, made the air feel musty and stale.

 _"_ They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John figured.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," you said. "We have to find a hide-out. A rendezvous. _Somewhere_ in their messages it must tell us."

You stepped toward the nearest crate, scanning over the titles for something of significance.

Beside John, Sarah shifted on her feet. "Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it."

In a perfect harmony for maximum awkwardness, Sherlock said, "Yes, it would be better if you left now," while at the same time, John stammered, "no, no, you don't have to go, you can stay."

John sighed and looked to you for help.

"Uh, Sherlock was kidding. Please, stay if you'd like," you invited. Sherlock rolled his eyes and started scrolling through the pictures of graffiti on his phone.

Sarah looked nervously at Sherlock, getting the impression already (took you that long?) that he didn't really like her. She smiled awkwardly and tried for a friendly approach. "Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

"Oh, for _London's sake_ ," Sherlock muttered under his breath. 

While John searched for sustenance in the kitchen, Sarah was looking at the photos of graffiti on your phone ans asking stupid questions. At least she wasn't bothering Sherlock, who also had the pictures out.

"So, this is what you do, you and John and Sherlock," she remarked over your shoulder. "You solve puzzles for a living."

"(Y/N) and I are consulting detectives," Sherlock called tetchily, looking up. You glared at him and he looked back down to his phone.

There was a wonderful four seconds of silence, but Sarah had to ask, "So what are those squiggles?"

"They're numbers," you answered. "An ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right. Well, of course. I should have known that." You couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

Another glorious minute of silence. "So these numbers, it's a cipher?" Sarah questioned.

"Exactly," Sherlock sighed.

".... and each pair of numbers is a word?"

Sherlock looked up slowly from where he was. "How did you know that?"

Sarah shrugged and pointed to a picture in an evidence bag; a photo of the graffiti on the brick wall. "Well, two words have already been translated here."

You grabbed the evidence bag and stared at it. "Soo Lin at the museum- she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!" You read out the words scribbled on the paper photo. "Nine mill."

"Does that mean millions?" John queried from the kitchen.

"Nine million quid," Sherlock repeated softly. "For what?" He turned and grabbed his coat and scarf. "We need to know the end of this sentence."

"Er, where are you going?" John asked him.

"To the museum; to the restoration room," you answered. "Oh, we must have been staring _right at it!"_

 _"_ But at what?" 

"The _book_ , John. The _book!_ The _key_ to cracking the cipher."

"Soo Lin used it do the interpreting! While _we_ were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code!" Sherlock's eyes were lighting up, he was getting ready for the thrill of the chase. "It must be on her desk!"

You dashed off, hurrying out the door. "Taxi!" you shouted, running to the curb. You nearly knocked two tourists down on your way.

"Hey, du!" One of them yelled at you. " Siehst du nicht wo du hingehst?"

" Entschuldigen Sie, bitte," you apologized. Sherlock burst out of the flat behind them and did the same thing... Great minds run into poor tourist couples alike.

" Und dann sagen die, dass die Engländer höflich sind!" The tourist hollered, waving his London A-Z in the air angrily. He and his wife or girlfriend stormed off. What he had said was roughly, 'And then they say that the English are polite!' 

Your mouth fell open. "A book that everyone would own, Sherlock- the London A-Z!"

He saw what you were looking at and ran over to the tourists, who were now considerably far down the street. He grabbed the book from the tourists without a word, despite their protest.

"It says 'dead man,' (Y/N). He _was_ threatening to kill them." Sherlock closed his eyes and thought for a moment, presumably trying to remember all of the numbers of the cipher. "Nine mill," he muttered. "For..." His eyes shot open. "Jade."

You had to rely on lip-reading to be able to hear- see?- what he said, as he was on the other side of the street and traffic was busy. "I've got to tell John!" you called. You didn't know if Sherlock heard you, but you ran inside anyway. 

"Eat on trays?" you heard John saying inside. You stepped into the room as Sarah nodded, "Yeah." 

"John, the cipher-" you said, but then the doorbell rang.

"Oh, that'd be the take-out," John grunted, moving to get the door. "I'll get it, Sarah, you stay there." 

You followed him, still trying to explain about the cipher. At the front door was an Asian man in a jacket, the hood pulled up. You stopped trying to explain and stared at him suspiciously.

"How much do you want?" John asked, not seeming to notice your unease. He started to rummage through his trouser pocket.

The Asian man at the door glowered. "Do you have it?" he demanded.

John looked up at him blankly. "Have what?"

"Do you have the treasure?"

"I don't understand," John told him with confusion.

The Asian man frowned and pulled a pistol out of his hoodie. You gasped and took a step back. "The treasure!" he repeated. "Where is it?" 

John stared in fear, at a loss for words. The hooded dude coshed John on the head, and John crumpled to the floor. You held your hands up in surrender. "We don't have the treasure," you repeated, trying to stay calm.

Well, apparently that wasn't the right thing to say. 

_\------_

_Nine mill for jade pin, dragon den black tramway._ That was the final translation of the yellow graffiti.

Sherlock knew that, and you would have known as well, but there was a slight complication: That you'd literally been knocked unconscious and abducted with John Watson.

Sherlock found out you and John were missing when he ran into the flat calling, "John! (Y/N)! I've found it, I've got the cipher..." he trailed off as he saw the empty living room.

Empty except for very frightened Sarah Sawyer. "Sherlock!" she yelped. "Something happened! They're gone!"

"What? What happened?" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't know, I don't know, just- someone came and took them!"

"Who? Who was it?" 

"I didn't see! All I know is they had a gun!"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "I have to go find them."

"Should I call the police?"

Sherlock blinked. "What? No! Just- go home, it'll be fine."

"Wait- Sherlock!" But it was too late, Sherlock was already out the door of the living room.

But he noticed something on the door to the flat, something he hadn't seen before on his way in. On the door, in bright yellow paint. The Hangzhou numerals. 

It was the Black Lotus. 

\----

You came to in a dark, cold tramway with ropes around your body, strapping you to a chair. On two sides of the tunnels were burning dustbins, providing the only light. To your left, in the same situation, John was just waking up. He blinked away sleepiness and looked to you drowsily. You saw blood dripping down one side of his face and anger rose in your chest.

"A book is like a magic garden," a familiar female voice said. "Carried in your pocket." You recognized it as the woman from the circus.

She stepped forward from the darkness in a much different outfit then the ornate dress from before: a black leather jacket and shades. Behind her were to armed men, and to the left of _them,_ some large object covered with a purple cloth.

The woman smirked and slowly approached John, who was visibly grimacing in pain. She raised her glasses and raised a brow at him, so smug that you wanted to strangle her. 

"Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes," she told him in a heavy accent.

You and John stared at her in confusion. "I'm..." John paused, probably in pain. He tried again. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes." 

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it," was her snide response. She looked as if she was sharing some sort of inside joke with John. She reached into his coat pocket and he drew in a sharp breath from the pain. The woman pulled out a wallet and peered into it. "Debit card, name of S Holmes," she murmured, still smug. 

"It's not actually his, he lent it to him," you put in. 

She only glanced at you with distaste, then looked through John's wallet again. "And a cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, and this time John winced out of embarrassment (and perhaps guilt) instead of pain. "He gave me that to look after," John tried to explain. 

"Tickets from the theater!" She announced, still looking through it. "Collected by you, name of Holmes." ****

"Yes, okay," John mumbled, nodding drowsily. "I realise what this looks like, but I'm not him."

"You aren't as smart as you suspect, Mr. Holmes. 

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone," she recited, the smallest smirk on her face. "'Because no one else can compete with my massive intellect.'"

"Did I really say that?" John almost laughed, but the pain made him stop. "I suppose there's no use trying to persuade you I was doing an impressio-" The Chinese woman raised a gun to John's head and he flinched, turning his head away in fear. You gasped.

"I am Shan," she stated proudly. "Three times, we tried to kill you and your companions. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

John shook his head slowly, either in too much pain or too scared to answer. Shan frowned and cocked the gun, making him whimper in fear. 

"John!" you cried out, pulling at the restraints around you. One of the armed men took a threatening step toward you, and you sat back.

Shan pulled the trigger. 

You sighed in relief when the only sound was a click. It wasn't loaded. 

Shan smiled evilly and answered her own question: "It tells you that they're not really trying." Shan drew back the gun and loaded a cartridge into it. "Not blank bullets now," she said threateningly. "If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. _We_ just wanted to make you... _inquisitive."_ She regarded John sternly. "Do you have it?"

"D-Do I have what?"

"The _treasure._ "

"I _don't know what you're talking about_ ," John repeated, almost pleading with her to believe him with just his tone. Shan sighed and turned around, gesturing to the two armed men. 

"I would prefer to make certain," she said as the men pulled back the cover of the large object. It was the crossbow, the one from circus, and an arrow was already loaded into it. Shan turned back to you and John. "Everything in the West has its price; and the price for _her_ life, information."

The two armed men walked toward you and picked up your chair, moving you in line with the crossbow. You tried to ignore the intense fear rising in the pit of your stomach. "Was that like your cue?" you asked sarcastically. "What, did you rehearse this?" One of the men pointedly moved you closer to the arrow in response. You clamped your mouth shut.

"Where's the hairpin!?" Shan repeated, glaring down at John, aiming her pistol at his face. Oh, no, not Martin Freeman's beautiful face, please! "The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy! He took it, brought it back to London, and you, Mr Holmes, have been searching!"

"Please! Please!" John pleaded. "Listen to me! I'm not.. I'm not Sherlock Holmes; you have to believe me." His voice betrayed his desperateness. "I haven't _found_ whatever it is you're looking for."

Shan scowled. "I need a volunteer from the audience!" She turned to face you in front of the arrow.

"No, please, please!" John begged.

"Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you'll do very nicely." You glared up at Shan as she walked slowly and threateningly to the crossbow contraption.

"I'd like to file a complaint," you put in, pulse rushing. "I did not volunteer. I was... voluntold."

Shan's smug smile flipped to a cold frown. She took out a knife and reached up to a sandbag (how had you not noticed that?) suspended from a rope that hung through a loop in the ceiling. On the other side of it, a weight. It was, effectively, a pulley. It was the same scene from the circus. "Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act." 

John stared at the bag in horror. " _Please!"_

Shan ignored him and pulled a black origami flower from behind the crossbow. She placed it in your lap. "You've seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how this ends."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John reiterated frantically.

"I don't _believe you,_ " Shan sneered. 

"You should, you know," said a new voice. You recognized it instantly. Shan whirled around to find an all-too familiar (at least, to you) silhouette outlined against the dim lighting of the tunnel. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing like him." 

Shan cocked the gun and pointed it at Sherlock, but he darted to the side of the tunnel, now shrouded in darkness.

"How would you describe me, (Y/N)?" Sherlock asked as one of the guards hurried toward him. "Resourceful? Dynamic?" The guard reached him and you heard a grunt, then a body falling to the floor. " _Enigmatic?_ " Sherlock went on.

"Late?" you offered tetchily. The sand was still pouring out of the bag.

"Sorry about that. Traffic was killer. That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second." 

"So?" Shan growled.

" _So,"_ said, "the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you."_

Sherlock bursted out of the darkness and to the closest burn barrel, knocking it over and dispelling its light. The tunnels darkened considerably.

Sherlock reappeared just visible behind your chair and started untying your bonds, thankfully. The other armed man came out of nowhere into the light and looped a long red ribbon around Sherlock's throat, making him cry out, but he'd loosened your bands enough so that you managed to get yourself out of the chair and pull off the rest of the bonds.

While you took off the restraints, Sherlock was tugging at the part of the scarf around his neck. Watching them struggle, you winced- you knew what you had to do.

Nobody noticed you going over to the crossbow. Nobody noticed it slowly moving to face Sherlock's attacker. Nobody probably even noticed you'd gotten out of your bonds until you shouted, "I'm really, really sorry about this!" And pushed on the metal disc.

The arrow flew through the air and found it's home in the guard's stomach with a sickening _thwack_. He dropped to the floor.

\------

The police arrived soon enough to clear up the mess. Dimmock was waiting just outside the tunnel with a police car.

You (with a shock blanket -that Sherlock had, with a smirk, put around your shoulders) , John and Sherlock emerged from the tunnel and headed out to call a taxi. Seeing Dimmock, you stopped to have a word.

"We'll just slip off," you told him quietly. "No need to mention us in your report."

Dimmock looked at you uncertainly. "But (L/N).."

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."

"I just go where you and Holmes point me."

You started walking away and to the boys, who'd gotten a taxi and were waiting for you. "Exactly."

The next morning, you reviewed the texts that Sherlock had sent you after the whole abduction in a tramway thing. "Nine million for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway." An instruction to all their London operatives; a message about what the Black Lotus was trying to reclaim. A jade pin. Worth nine million pounds. It was to be brought to the Tramway, their London hideout. But why so much? It depended on who owned it.

Two operatives based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin, wort nine million pounds. Eddie Van Coon was the thief. _He_ stole the treasure when he was in China. How did you know that it was Van Coon and not Lukis? Because of the soap. 

On the upper floor of the bank, Van Coon's old secretary Amanda was sitting at her desk, rubbing lotion into her hands, when her mobile phone rang. She picked it up.

"Amanda," the secretary greeted.

"He bought you a present," you said through the phone.

"Oh. Hello."

"A little gift when he came back from China."

Amanda narrowed her eyes. "...How did you know that?"

This time, your voice didn't come from the phone. It came from right behind her "You weren't just his P.A., were you?" you asked her.

Amanda turned in surprise. "You!" She switched off her phone and scowled. "Someone's been gossiping."

"Nope."

"Then I don't understand, how-?"

"Scented hand soap in his apartment," Sherlock interrupted from outside. He stepped out from the hall and into the room. "Three hundred millilitres of it; Bottle almost finished."

Amanda frowned, confused. "Sorry..?"

"Eddie Van Coon was not the type of chap to buy himself hand soap," you told her, wrinkling your nose. "Not unless he had a lady coming over. And it's the same brand as that hand cream there on your desk."

Amanda lowered her gaze. "It wasn't serious between us, it was over in a flash. It couldn't last; he was my boss."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked her softly. "Why did you end it?'

"I thought he didn't appreciate me. Took me for granted. Stood me up once too often- we'd plan to go away for the weekend and then he'd just leave; fly of to China at a moment's notice."

You glanced at the small green hairpin in Amanda's hair. "He brought you a present from abroad to say sorry... Can I... just have a look at it?"

  
  
Meanwhile, in Sebastian Wilkes' office, Seb was begrudgingly signing a cheque for twenty thousand pounds. John stood across the desk from him, waiting patiently. He had a butterfly bandage on the side of his head where he'd been whacked with the gun.

Seb stuck the cheque in a large envelope and looked up at John skeptically. "Did he really climb up onto the balcony?"

John nodded with a smirk. "Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over."

Sebastian shot him a look and reached over to give him the envelope. "Thanks."

Back with Amanda now, she held her hair in place with one hand while pulling out the jade pin with her other. She placed it in your outstretched hand. "Said he bought it in a street market," Amanda told him.

"Oh, I don't think that's true," Sherlock mumbled. " _I_ think he _pinched_ it."

"Yeah, that's Eddie," Amanda murmured ruefully as you inspected the pin with Sherlock.

"Didn't know its value; just thought it would suit you," you said. 

"Oh?" Amanda leaned forward with a little smile. "What's it worth?" 

"Nine million pounds."

Amanda's smile dropped. She stared at the pin in shock. "Oh, my gosh- Oh my _gosh_!" She stood up suddenly, nearly kicking her wheeled chair over. Sherlock chuckled. "Nine million?" she shouted in disbelief, her hand over her heart. 

The next day, the top story in the newspaper was titles, "Who Wants to be a Million-Hair?" You couldn't help but think of what a sad life the person who wrote that title must lead.

"Over a thousand years old," Watson muttered, almost in a complaintive manner, "and it's sitting on her bedside table."

"He didn't know its value; didn't know why they were chasing him," you told him.

"Hmm. Should've just got her a lucky cat." 

Sherlock laughed at that, but then quickly replaced the happy look with a frown. You gave him a frown of your own. "You mind, don't you? That General Shan escaped. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

Sherlock nodded admittedly. "It has to be a vast network, (Y/N). Thousands of operatives. You and I barely scratched the surface."

"But you two cracked the code," John interjected. "Maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that _he_ knows it."

You shook your head. "We cracked _this_ code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book."


End file.
